started to look to satan
after waiting for a lantern
he seems to know the path
to colt 45's and perique tobacco
ripped stockings and poison apple.
slipped wine in my bourbon
to mimic classy, safe and happy.
listened to nothing all night
through my laptop speaker.
palermo droning while I felt her
soft and slick, melting and spilling
film me, but fill her first, lucy

I don't react anymore-
I rather quell the hurt with silence
and somber smiles.
I just explain enough to move on.
What's the point in fighting
or hoping or longing
when it's met with more
questions and doubting
regardless of how true a feeling can be?
It does feel good to respond with open arms,
love and no alarms.
Even though every time I let my mind go,
there is a 100 ft sprint,
lodged behind my ankles.
I guess knowing that I'll probably
lose my breath at 50,
keeps me standing still for now.
I rather be remembered for
being strong-
than never sticking around too long.

I just woke from experiencing what it felt to be free
of a doctrine, of this overlying immense pressure to be righteous and respectful,
that which I've inherited from my own expectations and from those of whom I admire.
I had been touched by something even bigger than my own self perseverance-
than my connections between "the wise,"
than my science that I hold so dear.
It's almost indescribable- so bear with me
as I dig through my consciousness for a dream that could just be a great answer to our confusions.
I felt myself sifting through a softened solid
that was smooth and sunset-hued.
It stretched around me but went through me all the same.
It was warm but refreshing.
It cleared away the dichotomies, the questions, the labels into a vast spaciousness that couldn't ever make me feel loneliness because in this clear space,
there was you.
In a raw form- without explanations, without excuses, without fear,
without the taste of another on your lips,
without the pressure to exist.
Just you, and your experience floating around and through you,
in the most beautiful colors I've ever seen you don.
It was just you, and it was just me,
in soft solids of insight.
When I stepped forward, I saw your life around you,
not my interpretation riddled with negative and positive energies,
but the sights and sounds that created an indefinite understanding.
With the sunsets swimming around them.
As I got closer I began to notice my own life,
spirits of the past grazing my skin gently
and gingerly.
And when we finally were face to face,
in what might be nano-seconds
our eyes were not expectations but one,
our lips were not provocations but one,
our bodies were not vehicles but one.
And it felt comfortably fluid as we walked together in something I can only liken to acceptance.
It was fleeting, however.
I was pulled out of this by the hands of 3 AM on a Tuesday, my disappearing fever,
and desire to relieve myself from all of the water I consumed before bedtime.
The lingering feeling of insight and acceptance urged me to write,
and expel the overwhelming emotion of wishing I never woke up.
I couldn't stop sobbing
and I hadn't a clue why.
I guess it was because in this dream
I came to know
the world is crumbling around us
and all we can see are the demands and the means to be something other than oneness.
We choose be chained by these requirements,
because living in this world is not the safety of the amniotic sac that we leave behind in the past.
We should know that we could relive that every time we create something we strongly believe doesn't have to last.
I'm not sure who I've lost,
or what I've found-
but I can hope
it's knowing that we may not ever precisely touch what love is despite how much we try to render it through words
and actions,
a definitive language that gives us its tangibility.
But it can touch us.
It can touch us into being one again,
if we put our lives on pause,
It can touch us if we let it.

Here is a thimble.
Your finger is protected from ******,
when sewing a passionate garment.
Yet the blood of a tailor,
is a blessing in dark garb.
Discard metal and thread carelessly.
My skirt is wine red and parched.

Elixir for the weak-
minded.
Excuse me for the cheek.

I listen to the whirr,
the white noise of the air conditioner,
the occasional thumps from upstairs,
the shifting of their chairs,
my scratching pen, mark after mark
and the mood music soft and dark
spilling out of the hidden speakers.
I'm staring at my slipped off sneakers
sitting stuck in the silence of a block,
I think of what could get me to talk.
Surrendering to what I don't like to share,
Details I would rather spare,
watching cartoons and salty bets,
bourbon and drunken cigarettes,
mostly the usual vices,
letting people to their devices.
Ever really been somewhere,
but never gone inside?
There I go, breaking the rhyme.
They kept knocking,
so I let them sit in the lobby,
I wonder if they'll leave,
if I tell them about my hobbies.
I keep my mouth shut and my doors locked,
and sip slow at my bulleit on the rocks,
I let the daze set in, and the movement of pen
do the talking,
The lights too dim,
the volumes too high,
I don't hear them knocking.
I stare at my empty glass,
at the bottom a warm stone,
I don't think I'll ever feel this alone.
I keep holding on to my only strength.
Keeping everyone new at arms length.
with only my liver left to thank.

we are forever rendering what it means to be alone.
to see the solid sun in the distance going down, the colors,
the way the branches of the trees creep into the horizon,
like black veins around pearly blue eyes- the sky
its something we all describe,
in solitude.
it's been done by each of us every time we look up.
it is the reminder that we ought to be fond of ourselves.
that we are all the same, an those of us
who feel the pangs of loneliness need to fill the space
with the pleasure of quietude.

i used to know a lot of people.
life apparently does you like that
but there was one
i came to know
in school
this girl that seemed
spectacular.
everything about her screamed...
well, everything about her screamed.
she was like an idol
i aspired to be
just like her
command a crowd like she did-
but i had my limits
and she had none
she never feared to be loud
and wild and free
like a mad horse
in a field of grassy daylight.
but people aren't horses
and nighttime always
comes to claim us.
and it's easy to see differences
when you're younger.
i look at the same girl today-
and i worry.
she seems to have lost
what little sanity she has left
she pulls her hair
chases false love
forgets pain in bottles
scolds others for life
everything about her screams...
well, everything about her screams
****** ******
i look in the mirror
and hold myself close
i could have been her,
i could still become her.
but there is still time-
to continue
to be
me
and know some better people.

I tried writing about you before, but looking at it now.
It was trite.
And cheap.
And sympathy seeking.
Like the very spoiled rotten child I accused you of
accusing me of.
But the truth is- you haven't said much to me about anything- for a long time.
And I just miss our conversations.
And I really do try, sometimes-
but there is this hesitation.
We're different beings but still the same.
You're upset the lady downstairs is being beaten again-
in a panic you call the cops and
mom's head is going to have a baby of worry
if we get involved.
But you don't care. You care about the noises
of the kid beating his mother again.
So you call- and for a moment I'm **** proud.
But you can't articulate your words right on the phone.
You exaggerate out of excitement.
I get frustrated and I grab it from you.
Why do we kids treat our parents so sourly?
These people that we came from,
I never would dare yell at stranger,
or even a friend,
the way I do my dad.
And its not that you deserve better treatment,
because we all have had issues.
You've treated me pretty ****** before.
I've did you as well.
I wonder if there's a way...
we could both have a beer.
But I guess I'll keep wondering,
because I wouldn't be a good Indian daughter, then.
And maybe you wouldn't be a good Indian father, either.
But if we could just be without these conventions
for a day.
an hour.
a moment.
a minute.
a second.
I'd tell you
you're pretty **** cool, dad.

Sweet knight.
Sweet, silent knight.
I see you when you don't look at me.
You have tired eyes in a castle,
and though you call it salvation,
that blue light wont protect them.
And those hands gloved in mail-
they are not only meant
to grip cold connection.
You may have forgotten
amongst the digital clutter
but your sword is pen.
Quit confusing it with distraction.
Drop your devices and mechanisms
that you use for isolation.
Hold this plea as your new prayer,
even if it's only a whisper.
Make something.
I don't expect greatness,
but when you dress your wounds
in hesitation and use your insecurities
as your armor-
all I can ask is that you make something.
Harness your fear as your steed-
and ride it with ink as you need.
Please just make something.
There are hours in the day spent on
words never said because
those tired eyes are at a stand-still
on a sheet of electronic nonsense,
and you tremble with your shield
of self-doubt.
A block's only a battle,
Don't lose the war to online addiction,
cell phone conversations in meaningless text,
there's more left in your creative conviction.
I see it when you don't look.
Sweet knight,
you are the one in my mind
that is there to save me with your speech
I beseech you,
*Make something.

if i trust you

if i trust you

if i trust you

you could take it all away again.
too scared to show you
my heart is bored with the same old sadness
don't want to you to rip me
a new one.
don't need to feel as real
as i feel every single day
i think of what happened.

I Like many tend to think what I know at the moment is most true,
although I like to pretend I believe I know nothing,
and use the popularity of the thought, That is what I just said
as an excuse for being self-centered.
I've become what I've feared. Just like you
But maybe you won't- as we are allowed to be different. But we're not
I know that I must unchain my mind from my own protections and coping mechanisms, Am I just your coping mechanism?
I am not just I. You are not just you.
We are everyone else who has ever touched us. What about me?
How could I hate you for treating me differently to protect yourself? Simple- people are responsible for their actions!
My hate is just protecting myself as well. That's what he wants you to believe
I have voices in my head I am not just a voice telling me to be stronger than this, Yes? and they're just as juvenile as I am. Trust me
No wiseness of years because they're only as old as I exist. But I'm your friend
They want to cocoon me inside and keep me safe but they do not know. I love you.
I do not know. But...
I do not always know the best answer. Neither do they. Or you.
And this I know to be most true.

You and I are always together
in sweat and showers,
delicious dinners,
in choice, in trials, in travels
and at bedtime.
I watch you sleep and wonder
if we are together in dream.
Because I can never get tired of you.

Compared you to a child,
but children are less dishonest.

The countless nights of being taken ever so uncomfortably,
fogging up the windows drawing cheesy arrows
stuck through hearts with our initials
in the condensation of our ****** tension.
Unfulfilling menaje tois cuts right through any arrowed hearts.
Sat dripping blood and juice,
"Don't get it on the fabrics...I'll come back with a towel."
You said.
I sat there
in too deep.
Staring at the bag of thrift shop,
sports flags,
my blood dripping from my fingers
to my thighs,
in your backseat.

I'd forget things,
but they're much worse to discover again.

If it didn't harm anyone,
I'd ask him for a new one.
I'd pack light and disappear.
If it meant I never had to hear
the voices in my head
that tell me to leave
every
single
day
I'd be ready in fifteen minutes.

There is never any urgency
until we notice the clock.

It's getting to be boring.
I'm sure you're aware.
So it'll be no surprise,
when I'm out of your hair.
I've got big ideas,
a few sweet plans.
You don't need to be there,
with your indifference.
I won't drag you along,
or force you to bite.
Either walk beside me,
or return to the night.
You groan and you sigh.
I think of everything else.
You lie through your teeth,
about what you've felt.
And I'll believe you
because of the way you smell
like I need you,
can't get over your spell.
Your white mask is plastic,
you're still just a pup,
fooling everyone with
thinking your time is up.
You pull at your hair,
dig into your face.
You just need some sleep,
and to stay in one place.
Stop sniffing at me,
and licking my wounds,
I'm sick of the sting,
I'm leaving soon.

My eyes might scan bookshelves,
but I search for Blankets.
I wont say a word,
because it's already quite warm in here.
My friends are yelling at each other,
about bad politics,
while there's testosterone on the blue screen.
I sit on the floor and flick comrades
off my lap.
Little dark bug- I was quick to slap.
It's clamorous, a broken plate,
a blame game,
then silence.
Everyone else is on a smoke break.
I sit on the sofa while we wait.
I keep looking at Blankets.
The warmth and comfort of Blankets.
You know you fix heartbreak-
by filling it up with empty cotton?
so the blood soaks up,
and the space is cramped,
so those mushy feelings have no place to stay?
I cover myself in the forms of Blankets.
I am just one soppy broken heart,
surrounded by the same on Super Bowl Day.

So many pages on the floor,
which are mine and which are yours?
You once said,
I am a book with large font.
Sometimes I wonder
if I am just a book that speaks out loud.
That does the reading for you.
An audiobook?
You're a heavier book,
filled with calculated text
and silence-
but never any blank pages.
I hold you up to the light
to read while laying
and fall asleep
until I feel the weight escape my hands
and slam down
HARD
on my face.
Keeps me awake.
Keeps me in pain.
The only way I can read you right,
is from above.
But these torn pages read of only love.

Business men pick their noses in trains.
They think no one sees them but I haven't forgotten
the many hands that they shake.

I hope you knew I'd write about you.
I hope.

Let's pull those knees close,
and think of childhood.
We were fragile beings of light.
Now we're heavy black glasshouses
throwing skipping rocks in the dark.
I wish I went to sleep-away camp,
like all the cool kids.
I could skip rocks,
and learn slip knots,
and maybe how to swim.
Sit by campfire
and tell scary stories,
and spill my first kiss
as the truth in a guts game.
"It was third grade.
She was a ******* girl-
and we wanted to practice
for our shared boy crush.
Baby tongues danced
and I just liked it more than I should have."
And then someone would
douse the flames
with a bucket of lake water,
to put an end to the horror.
Today she's having a baby,
and we haven't spoken
since grade school.
I wonder if she ever reads my poetry.
The kids would have teased me.
Or perhaps never believe me.
The holes keep getting bigger.
They let the light in from outside.
Let's let our knees go.

coated with cushions
fall asleep anywhere
without a single care or worry
wish i knew your secret
Captain Comfort.
everything comes easily
easy to withdraw
easy to release
who cares the least?
Captain Comfort.
i wanna feel what it's like
to be in that soft skin
forgetting what is in
forgetting everything
Captain Comfort.
in your own life boat
is there space for me?
or would it only be
discomfort?

"It's not for anxiety," they said, tightlipped but concerned,
they don't understand that I can't pay attention if my heart beats louder than my words,
The sound of my thoughts coming at me like trains and bike and buses,
honking at me to say something articulate,
is much louder than their confused voices explaining that the blue pill is to stop the jitters,
but I've got other issues.
They don't see that there is a tea kettle bubbling in my stomach that shoots hunger through its long nose,
in shrill whistles that pierce my insides.
It's all I can hear when the TV is on and I haven't eaten.
But that little chemical spreads inside me like a blanket of silence, quells the screaming children
and the little girl constantly tugging at my heartstrings,
making indiscernible chords that only
echo as the sound of jealousy, fear and self loathing.
She tucks her self in and keeps her hands to herself for a few hours.
As the blue devils shovel more coal in the bed warmers,
the sound of metal clanging is muted by their powers.
Chipping away at the noise makers, the inhabitants of my tortured soul-
I love the empty I feel on adderall.

Husks of chopped evergreen
discarded by the sidewalk
tied to trash,
weeping pine needles
only hope to be compost.
Deflated decoration litter the lawns,
red and green strewn about
lights flickered and burnt out.
Expired eggnog, chicken bones,
crumpled wrapping paper,
empty boxes, metal reindeer,
tinsel and broken candy canes.
Dead christ is still in the holiday,
while we spoke about the night before
we forget we can see him
the morning after.

Silly me, sitting in a new class,
feeling like a social disaster.
At the front, there's no one
to hide behind,
no one who'll turn around
to ask for a pen.
That first interaction-
a distraction from reclusive habits.
There is a bag and jacket
sitting in the seat behind me.
My writing is all that dares
to converse with me.
It's quiet company
amongst the chatter of my peers
the voices I wish I didn't hear.
When teacher asks our names,
and I stutter to respond
there are whispers in my ears.
Am I the only one?
Who doesn't know a soul-
who couldn't say hello,
when that girl's smile showed?
It's not a place I'd call home,
so I keep my nose in the chicken-scratch-
reading the syllabus
silly me, in a new class,
whispering social disaster out loud.

Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when you haven't invited me?
You float declarative plans in the air,
and I'm left to jump and catch them, hungrily,
eagerly in a craze to see you, to feel you,
to hug my thighs to your waist desperately.
If I do so, I'm left waiting for my plea to be seen.
Waiting for you to be clean.
Waiting with no self esteem.
But this is our love.
And I will oblige, and not be stubborn
like you call me.
I will succumb to your efforts to be "cool
calm and collected," and unaffected by me.
Is that not it? Is it because you fear of rejection?
You tell me you don't know how to ask for my companionship.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
It's not like I'm not your lady, and you, not my man.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when the air is a bitter cake around us?
Our comfort is a milk we squeezed from my *****,
and now I've only drips that your sighs of frustration
soak up every time I express my desires.
I've learned to swallow my words,
because I am lady, and not mama or baby, but the trauma
from the near past has made me wary.
No, I do not want to wait indefinitely for your ideas to play out.
For you to accept my plea to come with you.
I rather know when to be ready, so I can be myself,
and not be your beg-to-come pet.
Does it bother you that I want to be treated with respect?
Or from you, is that too much to expect?
Am I too much, is this too much, what is too much in your head?
Too many questions, to you, enough is said.
You treat me with silence, and I treat you in bed.
Whose anger is healthier? I don't know either.
But lets start with questions we can both answer.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
Yes,
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me, love, so I can come with you.

Just a minute left before I should pinball out of my building doors
and speed over past the new high riser,
gust of wind pushing against my little body,
tiny amongst these buildings going up.
My eyes switch between the time and the streets,
My feet fall soft and I’m safe.
The trains not here yet and then it is,
and then I sit and I rip my book out of
my lunch bag, ticket tucked under my bookmark
In case the conductor don’t see me
I’ve been reading about the golden state killer.
Rye’s a five minute warning and then
I’m speeding out of another door down
the stairs past the elderly,
across one of the many ****** Port Chester
streets difficult to cross but I’m walking
my legs dart fast past the head shop and the bread shop
and my nose is filled with sweet and sour.
I walk faster- avoiding the CEO
he rides the same train and I don’t want to talk.
So I march forward and don’t look back.
I get closer and mentally flip off the line of five short men
catcalling me in Spanish, all the while peeking in to the brisa marina window
to see if there’s anything my herbivorous mouth could swallow,
but i don’t break my stride.
They’re practically a butcher anyway.
I climb the stairs to the entrance, stepping beyond the dead baby bird carcass
I was hoping some other animal would consume yesterday
and the avocado shell that would have been good to bury it with.
I try to shake the thought of impending doom as I swipe myself in
Still going as fast as i can so that I don’t have to hold the door open for the CEO
Call me petty, but I do enough of his bidding on a day to day
And I ascend to age 5 years for 10 hours.
And then I run home just to do it all over again the next morning.

People are so romanticized,
until you come to know them.

I'm so glad you can't comprehend the feeling behind
the word, "hate,"
enough to use it without an accent that removes its sting.
But I think "shavam" is not too far from it,
because every time you mutter it,
under your breath
my skin burns off.

Your kindness you're killing them with your kindness.
He ended up not knowing anything anyway.
This stinks.
The 50s were staunchly, real staunchly...
12:34 12:38...around that time.
There's a bathroom over there!
Ahhhhhh yeah we could do that.
Look at the one we just took. See the boat here?
There's a strange man in it.
I thought so too but...
Is it just one bathroom?
Nice ***** and schmooze. Gotta salivate.
Oh bless you!
Then he go "marriage is a waste of time."
This is just not worth it.

One night in the middle of summer,
I was given my favorite dream.
And in it, I was her;
the girl you'd think about when you sing.
I woke up, glazed in melancholy-
in sparkle juice sheen.
And I touched your bracelet to my lip,
the one I stole right before we kissed,
and when our mouths swished
dreamy washing machine.
Cleaned our inner depths of psyche,
anointed with love poison-
unable keep the thoughts of longing, dry,
strong desires are the knife
that cuts the girl from your cloth
the one you think about when you sing,
the one I think you like.
So shredded and clean I bound my lips to you,
I didn't stop until dreams came to life.

Hey you poets.
Stop making me believe in romance.
It doesn't exist.
And I know I sound bitter.
But trust me, I insist.
It doesn't exist.
But reading your pretty confessions
makes me wish it did.
And now I have this unrealistic expectation
of how I'm going to kiss.
We are pixelated people.
desiring a little more than a glance.
Romance is only fiction
on a bookshelf in a prison.
And I know I sound bitter.
But trust me, I insist
It doesn't exist.

It's 3:43 AM.
I can't close my eyes.
My hearts beating too loud.
My stomach is twisting.
I don't want to be anyone's trouble.
Will I ever be something?
Could I be your honey?
Even though, I have no money?
I need to work.
I'll buy lotto tickets.
Do I have to strip? Or do ****?
What does it take?
My first payment is two-hundred and thirty-six dollars
twenty-three cents.
It increases after two years.
I don't have a job yet-
I graduate this May- if I don't die.
If I don't die, I will have to pay
this November.
Our anniversary is in November.
Better find a government job.
Make that cash!
I don't want a sugar daddy with a white mustache.
She said, "Everyone has loans."
Yeah, but I'm no one.
What does it take to get paid
loads
loads
loads
of cash?
I didn't care for money.
Capitalism grants me
no choice but to
Wonder what it's like at the bottom of the ocean?
No structure- it's dark.
I'll become fish food,
in some rich man's aquarium.

i've been texting people for a connection.
our bodies search for vibrations,
short and electric but its an elaborate show.
who are these folks behind the curtains?
and through these notes, i am certain.
i cant write anything of substance.
i keep seeing your name and i try to change it
into something insignificant.
but that which we call a rose,
right?
i keep trying to escape it
but my handwriting is no legible font.
no respectable medium to my professor.
i cant keep in between the margins
how would they know the amount?
did i plagiarize the way i wrote
"I miss you." ?
so, we type.
remove the writer. its about the content.
did i cite your absence right?
is this journalism, biography or *******?
it must not true, ****.
but my fingertips reach
short distances on the keys
of my devices
and we type.
hashtag notice us, hashtag test us back,
are we connected yet?

When she told me- I didn't know how to respond.
Ask questions. Learn more. Be proactive.
I felt my lips move, speaking, asking, pretending I knew
what I was really saying.
It was as if I didn't want to her to get off the phone.
I was scared.
It was odd that she didn't sound comforting.
Is she delivering a prediction of a death sentence?
What is the proper response to that?
I kept asking her what it all meant.
So vague and indiscernible.
She told me to take care of myself.
I guess I'm not doing that already?
Who do I talk to after this?
I don't want pity or concern.
I just want feeling
like my stomach acid is proceeding
to consume every other internal *****
I could ever muster keeping
to go away.
I know I shouldn't worry.
There are people out there without limbs.
Worrying wallflower.
Worrying won't wish wondering away.
Let me deflect.
I can write about it and pretend
that I never did want to live past ten.

Gave a call.
Rang twice.
Mailbox full.
Gave another.
Rang five times.
Lady's voice.
Unavailable.
Shower time.
Maybe after?
Brooding.
Longing.
Wet.
Wrapped in towel.
Look at phone.
No missed calls.
Typical.
No surprise.
Forget the phone.
Forget the caller.
Return to life.

Love poems are stupid
when you hate
feelings
like
this

I have something to write,
but I'm falling deeper.
It sears in my chest
and keeps me up early.
I know what I want to say
but I hold my lips shut.
I know what I want to do
but I won't let my fingers move.
I guess if I don't write about it
it won't be true.
It won't be forever.
It won't be you.

I remember when my feelings for you were diluted with the desire to be drunk and careless.
Part of me wishes to return to a summer night where it didn't matter whether you responded back to my beckoning,
because I'd never be as lonely as that makes me feel now.

counting goodbye kisses-
there were only five or six instances when they didn't happen
when you fell asleep during the ride (at least I kissed you on the cheek)
when you wanted to give me a hug instead-
that day you dropped me off at a party.
when you told me to get out of your car-
we were actually official then haha
and when I "stormed off," frustrated- that probably happened three times,
counting the dollars spent-
for someone who's a broke college student,
I didn't let that stop me from showering you with thoughtfulness
because money will never be able to buy a gaze from you
counting the reminders I've given you-
that we are something, special
I think this one might be the two hundredth one
counting your equivalents
I have them all saved in a folder,
and I dont ever go a day without looking at them.
counting all the times I've cried the last few months,
there were at least 133, and only one was over a movie.
counting all the times you hurt me
I stopped at 18 before I told you
I loved you-
not worth counting those
because that just made it 134-
and pain in the form of endless sheep.
so I decide to sleep instead- and forget-
and never count again.

Sit on the couch,
where comfort lies.
Watch the light leak in true,
past the gathered shades.
Hold hands with quiet,
the untouched acoustic
you don't know how to play.
That's alright.
Don't
stop
writing.
Listen to the hollow sound
of distant drivers speeding off.
Play with your fingers,
that fumble with your pen.
Draw circles around your favorite,
lines and alliterations and
spell your name differently.
That one's cool.
Don't
stop
writing.
Forget yesterday's whispers,
that became unclear.
Cut last nights losses,
your hands are still here.
Revere the reminder that
morning solitude does not
have to be sad.
Don't
stop
writing.

Ask me once again.
Maybe the answer will be different.
Maybe I've grown tired of confirmation.
Maybe I've tried too hard for too long.
Proving a truth that won't be believed.
I fear for a future where all there is
is your constant questions.
And I am lost in constant answers.
Is that a hope worth saving?
You are a soul who is waiting
for a reason to point and shout
that you knew it all along.
Maybe you like to wallow.
Maybe it'll make a good EP.
Maybe I'm just a stepping stone
in your melancholic alcoholism.
I could be just a bottle
held to feel empty
drained of sparkling juice
and then filled up with doubt ****
to sprinkle amongst familiar crowds
or the saddest "I told you so."
Maybe I'm thicker than that.
Maybe you've spread yourself too thin.
Maybe I'm ready to let go
of your minimal digital sins.
I tell my self this one thing
over and over,
and hold the repetition hostage.
Like I do your constant questions.
"forgiveness is
don't suppress.
just forget.
let go of all regrets.
yours and his.
even if you are the only one
who is asked again.
you are the hope worth saving.
nothing more.
nothing less."
So ask me once again,
maybe the answer won't be given.